(Where do people start with these things?)
Well. My name is Selene Copperfield. I used to live in North Carolina and attend university at UNCSA. Writing is my life, basically. That, and music. As of right now, my best and only friend is my guitar (who, incidentally, does have a name--Augustus. I might explain that later). I am utterly alone in this sprawling European city of old and new. Can you guess where I've moved?
Yes, London-town. But, now that I'm settled in my new flat, I've had some second thoughts.
What on earth am I doing here?
How am I going to get a job?
And perhaps most importantly: Why did I choose February to move to London?
It's so cold here! Sure, North Carolina got cold, with the occasional smattering of snow, but it's nothing compared to this. My flat is drafty and tiny, and I'm wearing gloves as I type this. Who am I to complain, though? Technically, I have everything I want.
You see, moving to London was less of a whim than a need. Looking back on it all, it seems too ridiculous to be true. Truth is stranger than fiction, indeed. This truth begins with Luke. My brilliant older brother who could name off every constellation and do the most complicated equations in his head. Despite his knack for all things logical, he had a heart of gold. When we were little, every time I clumsily scraped my knee or got pushed around by a bully, Luke took care of me. I feel like he was there for me much more than my parents ever were. Our conversations were easy and all-encompassing, even though I'm four years younger. I knew I could count on Luke--he was constant.
One November night, I was making pasta when the phone rang; the policeman on the other line tried to be gentle, I could tell.
"Is this the Copperfield residence?"
"Yes. Can I help you?"
" This is Officer James with the city police department. Are you the daughter of Kendall and Joyce?"
"...Yes."
"I'm afraid I have bad news. Your parents were in a car crash, and the paramedics have declared them deceased. If you and any other immediate family would be available to come to the ER to identify them and say goodbye..."
I remember eking out a mechanical "yes" and then calling Luke. He was within ten minutes, though the drive from his apartment was actually thirty. At the ER, his hand was the only thing keeping me tethered to--well, everything. Luke confirmed our parents' identities (I couldn't bear to look. I didn't want to remember them like that, all bruised and still), and then we drove slowly back home. The police and our parents' attorney acquiesced to doing business the next day instead of that night. I never let go of Luke's hand, not even when I fell asleep on the couch. Right before slipping into oblivion, I heard Luke say, "I'll take care of you, Selene. I swear it."
I was sixteen. Luke was twenty, a sophomore in college. By some miraculous turn of events, we were able to keep the house. Luke moved back home, and we started life over. Thanks to our inheritances from both our grandparents and parents, we were able to live reasonably well. Those next few months were dismal, though. The ever-present ache forced me to work harder at things most people took for granted. Like getting up in the mornings. Oh, that was rough.
About five months later, things began looking up. I had landed a summer job, and Luke had maintained his scholarships. Plus, warm, sunshiny weather is a wonderful balm for depression. My face finally cracked a genuine smile for the first time in what felt like years. Coming home one day from school, however, I found the house empty. I initially thought nothing of it; Luke occasionally hung out with friends or ran errands--he'd be gone for hours. I started to worry when hours turned into a whole day. His cell went straight to voice mail, and none of his friends knew where he'd gone. After three days, I called the police. They began what would turn out to be a fruitless investigation. Luke wasn't coming back. It took me two weeks to learn that, but I did.
No note. No forewarning. No goodbye. I think if he had told me his plan, I could have forgiven him easier. He abandoned me, leaving me with the house, all the stuff gathering dust inside, and the payments. What possessed his logical mind to think that was a solution? I will never know.
With the help of my parents' attorney, I sold the house and the vast majority of the things inside. A family friend who owned an apartment complex gave me a room on the condition that he would check up on me every once in a while. Since I had no immediate family, and both my parents were only children, I was alone. I worked two jobs to save up for college (I wanted to leave my inheritance as intact as possible; I'd learned to prepare for the unexpected). Two years later, at 18, I was accepted to University of North Carolina School of Arts (UNCSA). There, I actually felt happy. I met Skyler, and after a bit, we became serious. He was sweet with a grand sense of humor, and I felt comfortable with him. That is, until I found him and my best friend when I popped over to his apartment for a visit. Some dark part of me foresaw this happening. Like, of course my boyfriend would cheat on me. With my best friend. Why would I expect anything else?
That happened a little over a month ago. It was then that I decided to take a semester off. (Heck, I won't ever return to the States, if I can help it.) I wanted to get as far from the country as I could without having to speak another language. London calling! Researching flats, acquiring an education permit from UNCSA, and packing up my apartment consumed my time, along with working my two jobs. Two days ago, I finally had everything ready. I boarded the plane, and now here I am. My flat is across the street from the Smithfield market and St. Bart's hospital. It's tiny and endearing, despite the chill.
I have no idea what life will be like here, but so far, I like it. A weight's been lifted off my shoulders.
What on earth am I doing here?
How am I going to get a job?
And perhaps most importantly: Why did I choose February to move to London?
It's so cold here! Sure, North Carolina got cold, with the occasional smattering of snow, but it's nothing compared to this. My flat is drafty and tiny, and I'm wearing gloves as I type this. Who am I to complain, though? Technically, I have everything I want.
You see, moving to London was less of a whim than a need. Looking back on it all, it seems too ridiculous to be true. Truth is stranger than fiction, indeed. This truth begins with Luke. My brilliant older brother who could name off every constellation and do the most complicated equations in his head. Despite his knack for all things logical, he had a heart of gold. When we were little, every time I clumsily scraped my knee or got pushed around by a bully, Luke took care of me. I feel like he was there for me much more than my parents ever were. Our conversations were easy and all-encompassing, even though I'm four years younger. I knew I could count on Luke--he was constant.
One November night, I was making pasta when the phone rang; the policeman on the other line tried to be gentle, I could tell.
"Is this the Copperfield residence?"
"Yes. Can I help you?"
" This is Officer James with the city police department. Are you the daughter of Kendall and Joyce?"
"...Yes."
"I'm afraid I have bad news. Your parents were in a car crash, and the paramedics have declared them deceased. If you and any other immediate family would be available to come to the ER to identify them and say goodbye..."
I remember eking out a mechanical "yes" and then calling Luke. He was within ten minutes, though the drive from his apartment was actually thirty. At the ER, his hand was the only thing keeping me tethered to--well, everything. Luke confirmed our parents' identities (I couldn't bear to look. I didn't want to remember them like that, all bruised and still), and then we drove slowly back home. The police and our parents' attorney acquiesced to doing business the next day instead of that night. I never let go of Luke's hand, not even when I fell asleep on the couch. Right before slipping into oblivion, I heard Luke say, "I'll take care of you, Selene. I swear it."
I was sixteen. Luke was twenty, a sophomore in college. By some miraculous turn of events, we were able to keep the house. Luke moved back home, and we started life over. Thanks to our inheritances from both our grandparents and parents, we were able to live reasonably well. Those next few months were dismal, though. The ever-present ache forced me to work harder at things most people took for granted. Like getting up in the mornings. Oh, that was rough.
About five months later, things began looking up. I had landed a summer job, and Luke had maintained his scholarships. Plus, warm, sunshiny weather is a wonderful balm for depression. My face finally cracked a genuine smile for the first time in what felt like years. Coming home one day from school, however, I found the house empty. I initially thought nothing of it; Luke occasionally hung out with friends or ran errands--he'd be gone for hours. I started to worry when hours turned into a whole day. His cell went straight to voice mail, and none of his friends knew where he'd gone. After three days, I called the police. They began what would turn out to be a fruitless investigation. Luke wasn't coming back. It took me two weeks to learn that, but I did.
No note. No forewarning. No goodbye. I think if he had told me his plan, I could have forgiven him easier. He abandoned me, leaving me with the house, all the stuff gathering dust inside, and the payments. What possessed his logical mind to think that was a solution? I will never know.
With the help of my parents' attorney, I sold the house and the vast majority of the things inside. A family friend who owned an apartment complex gave me a room on the condition that he would check up on me every once in a while. Since I had no immediate family, and both my parents were only children, I was alone. I worked two jobs to save up for college (I wanted to leave my inheritance as intact as possible; I'd learned to prepare for the unexpected). Two years later, at 18, I was accepted to University of North Carolina School of Arts (UNCSA). There, I actually felt happy. I met Skyler, and after a bit, we became serious. He was sweet with a grand sense of humor, and I felt comfortable with him. That is, until I found him and my best friend when I popped over to his apartment for a visit. Some dark part of me foresaw this happening. Like, of course my boyfriend would cheat on me. With my best friend. Why would I expect anything else?
That happened a little over a month ago. It was then that I decided to take a semester off. (Heck, I won't ever return to the States, if I can help it.) I wanted to get as far from the country as I could without having to speak another language. London calling! Researching flats, acquiring an education permit from UNCSA, and packing up my apartment consumed my time, along with working my two jobs. Two days ago, I finally had everything ready. I boarded the plane, and now here I am. My flat is across the street from the Smithfield market and St. Bart's hospital. It's tiny and endearing, despite the chill.
I have no idea what life will be like here, but so far, I like it. A weight's been lifted off my shoulders.
